Page 97 of Trapper Road

“It was a friend of mine — the shooter.” I swallow, take a breath, then add, “Also, I was there.”

Her hand clutches mine tighter. “What happened?” Her voice is soft, barely above a whisper.

I shake my head. “I don’t know.” But that’s a lie. I do know. “It was over some stupid video game. The night before they’d been playing online and two guys ambushed my friend Kevin and killed his character. The next day Kevin brought a gun to school and shot them.”

I shrug as if it’s a simple as that, but of course, it’s not. There’s so much more I don’t bring up. The blood. The screams. How loud the recoil was as it echoed against the metal lockers. The way Kevin looked as he pulled the trigger, the expression on his face.

The moment he turned and saw me standing there, watching, having seen him just shoot two of his close friends at close range in cold blood. All the other students in the hallway had fled. It was just us. Me and Kevin and our two friends bleeding on the ground.

He raised his gun and pointed it at me. I was so stunned it felt like I’d already been shot.

The thing was, I’d been there before. Not the exact situation, but something similar. When I was trapped in the Assembly of Saints compound and we were fighting our way out, one of the cultists pinned me to the ground with his gun in my face. All he had to do was pull the trigger and that would have been it. I’d be dead.

He never got the chance. Sister Harmony drove a knife into his neck and killed him. She saved me, even though she was hurt and covered in blood and could have been shot in the process.

I told myself in that moment that she was the kind of person I was going to be going forward: someone who risked themselves for others.

But there I was, in the hallway at school, looking at my best friend but seeing nothing except the empty blackness of the barrel of his gun.

I could see him trying to decide what to do about me. I knew right then that this was it. I was going to die too.

I didn’t want to die.

So I looked at my two dead or dying friends and said, “Fuck those guys.”

Kevin smiled. Nodded. Even blew out a snort of a laugh. “Right? Fuck those guys.” He stared down at the two guys he’d just shot, watching them bleed. The moment probably only lasted seconds, but it felt like an eternity. The puddle of blood spreading around them kept growing and growing, the smell of it heavy and sickening.

I knew that every minute they lay there was a minute closer to death. I knew they needed help. And I knew that if I moved, Kevin would shoot me.

Kevin nudged one of them with his toe. He didn’t react. “Yeah, fuck those guys,” he said again, this time to himself, under his breath. Then he’d turned and walked away.

I let him.

I made sure he was gone and I was safe before I scrambled to help my friends.

Those are the moments of the shooting I keep trying to strip from the instant replay constantly running in my head. The things I’d said about my two friends. The things I didn’t do. I could have stood up for my friends, and I didn’t.

I was a coward.

So really, what’s the difference between me and my father? We both showed a callous indifference to human life. It’s a phrase I remember from the articles I read about Melvin. One of the charges against him included it.

He showed a callous indifference to human life by torturing and killing women. I showed a callous indifference to human life by letting a murderer with a gun rampage through a school rather than try to stop him.

I didn’t even try to talk to him. I could have at least attempted to convince him to put the gun down.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “How do you even get over something like that?”

You don’t, I think. But I don’t say it because it’s the truth no one wants to face. I give the easy answer instead. “Lots of therapy.” I try to make it a joke and she gives a weak smile. I’ve probably said too much, exposed too much of my past. I’m about to stand and suggest going for a walk when she takes my hands in hers and pulls them into her lap.

“Tell me the rest of it,” she says.

“The rest of what?” I ask, trying not to focus on the feel of my knuckles brushing her bare thighs.

“The rest of everything. Your secrets. The things you’ve never told anyone. I want all of it.”

“Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Because I like you.”

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